


The Last Season

by honeyvioletmoon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Chubby Katsuki Yuuri, Drunk Victor Nikiforov, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Victor Nikiforov, Implied Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Post-Canon, Power Bottom Katsuki Yuuri, Sad Ending, Sad Katsuki Yuuri, Sad with a Happy Ending, idk - Freeform, im incapable of anything but angst tbh, this might have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8602654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyvioletmoon/pseuds/honeyvioletmoon
Summary: “Until now, I thought I was fighting all by myself. But now that Victor’s here, that's totally changed. Some things are still the same. Some have changed. Now, everything feels so new. I may never be able to regain what I’ve lost, but I can clearly see what's in front of me now. Figure skaters are only competitive for a short time. This will probably be my last competitive figure skating season. I don't know how long Victor will stick around, or how long my body will hold up, so please, God, give me Victor’ time, if only just for now....”---It wasn’t like Yuuri was fragile, like he deserve to be cradled by this man as though he were precious. Idolization or no, Viktor was not his to think stupid things like that about.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this is my first work for this fandom, but this show has consumed me and changed my life, so here goes!
> 
> As time goes on, this might get a little angsty. And a little different from the canon. Your comments always mean the world to me, but I don't actually know how I want this to end, so fans choice might end up happening... You'll see what I mean.

He’d done it. Katsuki Yuuri had actually made it through his short program routine without fail, no embarrassing bout of nerves when he’d gone out onto the ice, no frosty sting against his palms from missing a jump. He had gotten all his quads perfect,  _ even  _ the quadruple Salchow! Not just that, but he’d  _ won _ . Yuuri had actually placed first in the competition. He’d gone against Viktor’s advice, but he didn’t feel much guilt for disregarding his coach. He’d never felt more animated, more alive while skating, especially once he smacked face-first into a wall and the steady stream of crimson had dripped, salty and metallic, and mingled with the sweat beading on his upper lip. 

He had, in all honesty, expected Chris to beat him. By all means, the man seemed to have a lot more experience in that area than Yuuri. His whole routine was full of complex technique and even more pelvic gyrating. The audience seemed unable to tear their eyes off him, sucked in deeper by his entrancing green eyes or with every subsequent ass grab. Yuuri was more shocked and a little repulsed by his competitor’s almost lewd fantasy performance than turned on, and he suspected the viewers in the stands felt the same way. This ambivalence forced them not to look away in order to find out when it would end. Chris’ ex-girlfriend, from a relationship he claimed to be completely over, but which clearly seemed to end abruptly (leaving behind the sharp sting of resentment in the lingering shallow wounds), was also a skater and attending the Cup of China. Yuuri could only imagine the awkwardness she felt watching  _ that _ . Though he’d lost himself to his own skating, the fear that Chris’ capability to at least project that much self-confidence, to the point of vanity, for his own body had made him sure he’d lose. Then, when the scores were announced, and someone finally told him what the screen projected, because he’d left his glasses off after exiting the ice and was resolved to scrunching up his eyes to try and focus the blur before him, he’d  _ beat  _ the older skater. 

Truthfully, his success overjoyed him, but the best part was he rush he’d felt out there, skates gliding smoothly like Viktor’s fingers had, just moments before, grazed over the peeling skin, wind chapped and cold, with the slick relief of balm. He still felt a rush of jitters thinking about it, but they were not unwelcomed; he’d come to realize that they were just an inevitable part of allowing his idol, who seemed to daily develop less and less of a filter or understanding of personal space boundaries, to take control as his coach. Viktor looked out for him, though he could be tough, sometimes oblivious in his harsh remarks, cutting like the first chill blast upon entering the Ice Castle, or selfish in his manipulation, he has Yuuri’s best interests at heart. He wanted to push Yuuri’s limits and couldn’t waste time on sidestepping around his comfort zones, because Yuuri often clung to them without realizing he had more potential, in order to make him a better skater… A champion, even. 

Besides, Yuuri admittedly had come to recognize his senior’s attempts at pouting his way to victory, and getting what he wanted, whether it was for Yuuri to try and keep his arms at his side while throwing more weight into his turns, or confessing some sort of hardpressed childhood secret whispered across his clean sheets on the nights Viktor refused to leave Yuuri’s room. He could see the way Viktor used his personality to his advantage in order to get his wishes, and by now it was sort of endearing to him. Plus, just because he knew what was going on, didn’t mean he was resistant to it. All Viktor had to do was lower his smoldering gaze, half lidded eyes fringed by silver lashes, and purr in a low voice, “Do it, Yuuri, for me?” And that was it, he’d be unable to resist. Of course, the accompanying compliment he got for his obedient service helped to make him feel a little less self-hatred at being a sellout… Not that he had a praise kink or anything, that would just be even more awkward for him and Viktor. He didn’t think that his coach even realized he was doing it; Viktor was just a self-centered person by nature, and his natural charm, plus his celebrity status, meant he was sued to getting what he wanted. But the older man wasn’t selfish, or rude… He might be brutally honest, but never cruel. Viktor wasn’t a bad person, just not always nice. Yuuri had had a hard time at first figuring out just why Viktor had come all this way to be his coach when he’d managed to fail all his efforts at his weak skating career before. Viktor was an overachiever with medals and fame to prove his creativity and skill. His pieces, which he choreographed himself to music he had composed, were rehearsed to precision points and though beautiful, failed to invoke shock anymore. Or so he claimed. 

People were accustomed to Viktor’s perfection, and it was this almost inhuman inevitability of success that was expected, and took the joy out of skating for him. Or, not skating really.. Just competiton. After five world wins, there was no hesitant fear that he wouldn’t capture victory and clutch it to his heavy breast after a nerve-wracking period of quiet following the intensity of a job well done. With Yuuri, he had to learn new strengths, and weaknesses, and see him grow. There was no guarantee Yuuri’s winning streak would continue… Even now, Phichit-kun teasingly threatened to one up Yuuri in the next half of the Cup. This all could have been beginner's luck, or chalked up to the support he’d earned from his kindness towards Minami, who seemed to be an ironic fanboy parallel to his obsession with Viktor. He still had a hard time believing that the blonde and red haired boy looked up to him. Yuuri desperately wanted to do well this season, for himself as well as Viktor, who chose to give up so much and expected so much from him. He seemed to feel Yuuri had enough potential and talent to really win, and Yuuri wanted to believe his words rang true. He wanted Viktor by his side when he won the Grand Prix Final, confetti driving in the air like so many petals from the cherry blossom trees and joyous cries ringing out like golden bells on the cool breeze rising from the ice, tattooed with the looping echoes of his skates. 

Tomorrow morning, Yuuri would have to worry about the free skate program for the second event in the Cup of China competition. Not that worry wasn’t already creeping up his neck like the thin tendrils of steam, heavy and insistent, that rolled off the water of the hot springs, and swirled around the flush across his nape that surfaced whenever Viktor suddenly moved to stretch his leg, the burning pull akin to that of the liquid heat around their bodies. He wouldn’t just be performing his  _ Eros  _ routine again, but something new that Viktor had choreographed for him. He’d managed to tweak or add a few steps here and there, but mostly he’d spent weeks at the rink with the Russian, painstakingly running and rerunning each motion until Viktor’s surmising stare shifted into a bright grin of approval. It hadn’t been an easy routine either, but that was okay… Yuuri was quick to learn, and good at copying Viktor anyway. For now, though, he’d won and he could try to just enjoy it. The other skaters were probably planning celebrations; Yuuri had been invited out to eat with some of his younger competitors, but declined because he desperately needed rest. 

Viktor had hailed a cab back to their hotel while Yuuri had fended off last minute inquiries from reporters and enthusiastic fans with an apologetic smile, his hands raised. They clustered around the sliding glass doors of the convention center, fans in chic winter coats and fluffy parkas, as well as reporters decked out in scarves, heavy jackets and wool gloves gripping microphones or tugged off with mouths in order to tap against a smartphone screen, the blue glow offsetting the hollows of their eager faces in the dim night. The cool air of the China night ruffled Yuuri’s black hair slightly, the edges breaking free from their stylistic trappings for the routine. Viktor turned back with a small grin stretching the corners of his mouth, and one gloved hand reached out to tug Yuuri back by his coat. 

“We’re very sorry,” He murmured to the small crowd outside the exit, pushing Yuuri into the waiting car once it pulled to a stop at the curb, “But Yuuri needs his rest. He’s very grateful for your support!” And with a final wink that rendered some squeals from the groupies, and maybe one reporter (though he’d never admit it), he slide smoothly in beside his pupil and the taxi sped away into the dark. 

Yuuri huffed a short sigh of relief, having been a little overwhelmed in his exhaustion.  Viktor had taken care of the fans for him… His fans. Yuuri had admirers now, people cheering for him who weren’t his parents or a tipsy Minako in the dining room of the inn. That was new, and not unwelcome, but at the moment exhaustion slowly consumed every fiber of his being. The taxi cab driver switched on the heater, and he let his eyes fall shut, glasses tucked into his pocket, and dropped his head onto Viktor’s shoulder. It wasn’t unheard of for him to initiate this sort of contact, Viktor just usually did it because he was not the type of person who overthought everything to the point of inaction. But tonight he was too tired coming down from his victory high to care since he knew his coach didn’t, no one was around to see them, and his shoulder seemed the more comfortable alternative to the plastic handrail against the door.  The older man let out a soft chuckle into Yuuri’s hair, ruffling the strands with his breath as he pressed his forehead atop his student’s crown. Viktor’s hand glided over his own, entwining their fingers and meeting his palm with the back of Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri released the breath he’d been holding, tightening his grip around Viktor’s graceful fingers. Some part of his mind, the part pressed very far back after weeks spent with the Russian, protested, piping up that again this was not normal behavior for a coach and his prodige. Celestino had never acted like this with him, and Yuuri could never see the crotchety and bitter Yakov ever lifting a finger to show physical affection… Maybe that was why his stern Bolshoi bride had left him. Yuuri didn’t quite know the details of the story beyond what Yuuko received in her text conversations with Yurio back in Russia; Yakov still harbored his sour anger towards Viktor for trying to, “play coach,” in Japan and held his tongue. 

“I’m proud of you.” Viktor’s voice spoke deep and hushed in the humble solitude of the car as city lights flew by, winking out within the oncoming shadows. The words broke Yuuri out of his hazy reverie, like a warm summer’s wind blowing back the mist of sleep that coated his idle mind, a soft cloud with puffed cheeks and Viktor’s clear, blue eyes.  “Even if you did ignore my advice, and face-planted a wall like an idiot. You glowed, Yuuri, there’s no other way to describe the way you lit up the ice with your performance. And you won.”

Yuuri couldn’t do more but bite back a smile and whisper, “Thanks,” into Viktor’s elbow, though the compliment set a lump in his throat and heat into his cheeks, mashed against Viktor’s side. All of him ached, especially his legs, and he longed for the comfort of a bed. Well, the pain was really coming from his left leg, the same familiar dull throb that plagued him sometimes after a spin on the ice, or a morning run. He’d push through it, like he had done, for Viktor. It was nothing, anyways, not anything his coach would have let stop him during his time in Nationals. If he wanted to win the GRand Prix, which he did, he needed to become more serious about his training and stop worrying to the point of inaction, exactly like he was right now. Yuuri shook his head and something else caught his attention for the time being. The car had a sort of off-putting musty scent, like stale cigarette smoke and turned coffee. Yuuri wrinkled his nose at it and pressed his face deeper into the collar of Viktor’s coat, hoping he wouldn’t notice. 

“Are you okay?” Viktor immediately sat up, tipping Yuuri’s head up to meet his eyes with a concerned expression. 

_ Crap _ . Yuuri told himself that this concern stemmed from fear that his charge would be unable to perform, overtaken by a post-match panic, or a torn tendon or something. He ignored the way the grip on his chin felt gentle in the cautious way, or that the anxious lilt to his coach’s words resonated so much more deeply in his core than two professionals at competition, or even friends talking together. It wasn’t like Yuuri was fragile, like he deserve to be cradled by this man as though he were precious. Idolization or no, Viktor was not his to think stupid things like that about. 

“Fine… I’m fine.” Yuuri mumbled back, biting down on his tongue.

The pain, reverberating through his lower half and up to his brain, throbbing behind his bleary eyes, would fade like it always did. He’d probably just aggravated a muscle or something with all this training; since his defeat last year the the Nationals, he’d stopped caring about his body and the practice it needed to be able to perform on the ice, and getting back into it could often take a minor toll on it after disuse. This was his fault, but his body would adapt with time, now that he was going to give more than ever to win. He stretched out legs as far as they would go beneath the cheap vinyl seats of the cab, enjoying the way his muscles sang in tender burning, and hid the wince that formed along his shin.  Advertising stickers pasted on by former patrons littered the dividing window, along with words Yuuri couldn’t read scratched into the plastic, the lines of the characters familiar to him, yet at the same time illegible. Above in Sharpie someone English had written  **ACHILLES** in large block print, at least he  _ thought _ so… His glasses still hibernated in his jacket pocket. His coach’s words distracted him from this pointless perusal of the taxi cab graffiti. 

“Okay,” Viktor whispered, as the rocking motion of the car came to a stop, one hand still combing through Yuuri’s dark locks, sticky with gel and perspiration, while the other released him to pay their driver. 

He bid the woman a cheerful goodnight that was too loud for the calm stillness of the cool night air outside the hotel, and made to drag Yuuri upstairs to bed. The clerk at the front desk was a nice man, who told them in English that their room was on the fifth floor and passed them an ornate gold key on a square keychain emblazoned with the hotel logo. They passed a few quiet minutes in the elevator, the vague loop of calming music washing over Yuuri, who was grateful for once that Viktor didn’t see any need to fill the silence, and instead kept one hand under his elbow. He guided his weary champion to their at the end of a dim hallway, the rushing gust of cool air from the AC accosting them upon their entry. 

Their room was on the smaller side, but that was fine. A desk with a stack of hotel stationery and a pen stood on one cream colored wall, with a green carpet that ran up to the gold wallpaper trim. The small chest of drawers was beneath a large window directly in front of the door, with the night air ruffling the sheer white curtain drawn across it. Beside the small nightstand bearing a dated alarm clock blinking red letters Yuuri couldn’t even read in his woozy state, and a landline phone, was the single bed, which had a red duvet tugged across its lower corners, and white sheets. Once, Yuuri might have blushed at this, when he wasn’t too focused on the shooting pain running down his calf, and before Viktor had taken to sleeping in his bed back at the hot springs after wearing him down with his incessant, yet cheerful, begging. Yuuri dropped his bags and immediately toed off his shoes, draping his jacket over the back of the wooden desk chair. Everything about the modern room was bland, tasteful, and utterly nondescript, which he was grateful for because it meant less he had to process as he shuffled into the bathroom with his pajamas in hand to change into.

_ There had been an afterparty, _ he remembered distantly, as he showered half asleep and brushed his teeth in a fog. The water swirled down the drain, cleansing him of all of his sweat, glitter and hair gel. He had, in a way, become attached… If not addicted, to this new him that came out on the ice when he was skating his Eros routine, his entire being radiating feminine seductive tones, and the intensity of his superior’s gaze on him, partly as his coach (scrutinizing his performance), and partly because he’d asked the Russian not to take his eyes off of him, settling over him in the back of his mind like a heated blanket. Yuuri liked the newfound power he had, to be compelling for once, to enjoy skating again, to have confidence. But, at the end of the night, sometimes it was nice to wash himself clean of the sweat and the glow of his persona, and savor in the bright, inner buzz of that part of him deep in his chest. 

His reflection, still a bit hazy because he’d forgotten about his glasses, squinted back at him from the small mirror above the sink. The same brown bangs hung into his eyes, the same brown eyes that usually peered out from behind blue rimmed lenses, the same skin with the familiar tiger stripes running up his hipbones were sleeping, dormant, beneath his shirt, skin still a bit damp from the warm steam. He sighed… Same old Yuuri. Viktor leaned against the bathroom door in wait when he emerged, and promptly suggested they just go to sleep in a casual tone, as though he wasn’t doing it for Yuuri’s benefit and trying to be polite about it. That was how Viktor could be, sometimes cold and calculating, giving out sassy quips with a smile and a laugh as though they were nothing, blurting things out in that same happy, oblivious tone, unaware of anyone else but himself. But he could also be quiet, gentle, understanding… He’d asked Yuuri what the boy wanted him to be, a coach, a friend, something more? Yuuri had told him he didn’t want things to change, didn’t want  _ him  _ to change, and it was true. He wasn’t ready for that, and Viktor hadn’t pushed him… He’d given him what he needed to feel comfortable without making him feel guilty for it. And he really hadn’t wanted Viktor to change for him, since the Viktor he knew, the mess of idolized hero and the sometimes vain, blunt and caring man beside him, was the one he loved to be around.

Graciously, Yuuri nodded and waited as Viktor changed without any qualms for the eyes he felt on his back and burrowed under the covers of the shared bed they rented after scrubbing his teeth in the adjoining room. Yuuri sat on the edge of the bed, bending his knees and straightening them with a curious expression on his face when Viktor returned, pulling the blankets up over him and concluding that Yuuri suffered from exhaustion. His coach patted the spot beside him and Yuuri climbed beneath the sheets, oddly missing Makkachin’s usual heat creating a natural divide between them in the night. Still, he was much more content here, with the Russian’s silver warmth against his back, than at whatever celebratory mess of music and people he was missing right now. He lay on his side, cheek against the cool cotton of the slightly flat pillow, staring at the crackling static of the blurry dark against the darkened wall once the light clicked off. The carpet had an odd pattern of yellow and orange rectangles of varying sizes, tinged with brown.  _ Maybe he could count them if he needed something to block out the thoughts pinging around his head and preventing him sleep. _ He listened to the silence ring around his ears for a moment, imagining he could still hear the cheers of the crowd echoing around him from before, and then abruptly turned over so that he faced Viktor. The older man had one hand curled beneath him on the pillow, supporting his head on a lazy elbow, his eyes wide open and roaming over the slope of Yuuri’s nose and the still placidness of his pink mouth. 

“Hello.” He  breathed out, somehow not breaking the hush in the room. 

Yuuri didn’t answer, but instead reached out to pinch a lock of Viktor’s hair that hung above his cheekbone, glinting like bits of moondust and spare change through the shadows, between his fingers. He had wanted to move it away from the man’s eye, but found himself caught up in its reflective properties… Or maybe his own hesitation. Still, Viktor’s breath caught for only a second, and then he was huffing a tiny laugh. 

“Yuuri,” purred Viktor, blue eyes winking in the dark. “You’ve been acting so strange tonight, ever since you got off the ice. Is something wrong? Are you nervous… Or-Are you happy?”

“H-happy?” Yuuri choked back, sitting up a little bit since the question caught him off guard.  _ That’s such a random thing to ask. Does Viktor worry about… My happiness?  _ He thought, his mouth caught open in a tiny, startled intake of breath. 

Viktor’s mouth curled into a smile that rose at the edge of his face, like Yuuri was some tiny little sparrow in his path who always did the opposite of what he expected as he tossed out breadcrumbs. “Yes, you’ve never seemed so far away before, and I’m wondering if this is what victory looks like for you…. If it’s because you’re happy. Are you happy, Yuuri?”

“I’m proud of myself, I’m happy I did it… But, Viktor… Why do you care?” He asked, sleep edging into his soft spoken inquiry.  

Viktor’s gaze fell even as his eyes widened, and then he rose his head to look back to Yuuri again. “Yuuri,” He whispered, his stray hand reaching out to trail down his bare arm, the nails scratching so lightly against the curve of his inner elbow that his skin broke out in tiny goosebumps. “You’re mine… Why wouldn’t I care about your happiness? I want the best for you, after all.” 

He smiled, again, but it was different. His voice held no boisterous energy and he bounced from no walls. Viktor, a picture of all seriousness and deep emotion, was being honest with him. No teasing. Y _ ou're mine, he’d said. He must have meant his student, his pupil, his star.  _ That  _ had  _ to have been what he meant, despite the amourous punch the words held that made his breath hitch yet again. Viktor liked him, maybe even cared about him, but, not like that. It couldn’t be like that, Viktor was the idol that for years he’d held aloft on a pedestal, and he was the Russian’s new muse. They had to be professional about this, and Yuuri wasn’t ready for their relationship to change. _ Viktor had asked to be my boyfriend, if that was what I wanted. But I don’t want him to change for me. I like  _ my  _ Viktor, I mean, the one I know. He’s done so much for me, I can’t ask him to give up himself too.  _

For so long, he’d worried that Viktor would leave him, change his mind, or become disillusioned with whatever inspiration he’d placed in the man’s heart. Yet, Viktor had stayed by his side and encouraged him, pushed him to the limit and made his heart ache, but he’d also never had so much confidence in himself since Viktor had appeared. Viktor had been harsh in training, but never lost his understanding and consideration for Yuuri’s needs. He treated this like so much more than just a coaching gig and Yuuri didn’t stop him, because for one thing, Viktor didn’t stop being himself, and also he liked it. He liked the way things had become, and now it was just a matter of proving to Viktor that he had made the right decision. 

“I am. Happy, Viktor. I’m sorry if I’m acting different… I’ve never given that much too  performance before, and I’m a little worn out.” He responded, letting his hand finally drop onto the mattress, freeing his coach’s hair from his grasp. Viktor almost looked sad as the strands fell back into his face, his smile gone. That hadn’t satisfied him. 

“Yuuri… You’d tell me if you were unhappy, yes?” Yuuri closed his eyes, exhaling a long breath, and for a moment his coach worried that he’d fallen asleep. But then, he opened his mouth and breathed out answer.

“Viktor, you’re here, coaching me, and I just placed first in the competition on my way to the Grand Prix. I’m skating again, I  _ love  _ skating again, I love-I don’t think it is possible to be unhappy right now. I’m apprehensive about tomorrow, but I’m fine. I’m happy,” The last few words trailed off quietly, his cheek mashing against his pillow as he dropped further into dreams. “Much happier than before.”   _ When Yurio found me crying in a bathroom and screamed in my face,  _ he thought distantly, as the tension ebbed from his shoulders. 

Viktor hummed in reply, but said nothing, as though wondering if Yuuri was telling the truth. “Sweet, but you didn’t answer my question.” Viktor pointed out, before breaking his stern facade to pinch at Yuuri’s cheek. “The little piggy is trying to distract me?” 

The blood rushed to Yuuri’s cheeks, two spots of rose petals against the white sheets, and his ebony hair falling into his face. He didn’t dare open his eyes, and meet his coach’s own, and laying there, he looked like a picturesque version of Snow White, if she were a male, 23 year old, Japanese figure skater. He was also still alive, but not for long with the way Viktor kept casually mortifying him like this. His lids felt heavy, and suddenly the lack of remaining energy he had slammed into him full force, like any time he botched a jump and suddenly became one with the cool, clear glass of the ice, pale palm doubled against the frosty surface from where it peaked out beneath his gloves, the pulse jumping every so often in his wrist as a reminder that he was flesh and blood, thick, warm and breathing, rather than part of the crystal he dug his skates into so often. A yawn split his mouth without his permission, revealing white teeth in the very back. 

“N-no… There’s not much point to a pointless question, right, Vicchan?” Yuuri groaned, turning over onto his back, exhausted. Viktor huffed a laugh beside him, deciding his pupil definitely didn’t realize the name he’d just called him in his tired state. 

“That doesn’t even make sense, Лапочка.” Viktor told him, but decided to finally let him sleep. One hand snaked across the boy’s side, pulling him closer onto Viktor’s own pillow. Yuuri gasped at the sudden movement, and grumbled a little bit as he settled onto his side, back to Viktor. Viktor chuckled, and curled deeper into the mattress before shutting his own eyes. They both could use some rest, after all. Viktor reached one arm back for his phone, tugging it to him by the charging cord, before setting their alarm for seven the next morning and vaguely tossing it back in the direction of the nightstand. The resulting clatter of plastic made Yuuri, still slight awake, stir and move his legs back, so that they brushed Viktor’s knees. He made a small noise of discontent at the contact, opening his eyes abruptly. A little odd, but it could be blamed on sleep disorientation, so Viktor moved his hand into Yuuri’s hair and leaned over to murmur against his ear with soft comforts. 

“Yuuri, it’s okay. I’m here, go back to sleep. You’ve got practice tomorrow morning, and you’re tired. You were wonderful today, really fantastic. We’re going to keep it that way, you’re going to be even greater.” 

_ Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.  _ The words stayed inside his head as he closed his eyes once more, thoughts drifting with the gentle pull of his coach’s hand through his hair.  _ Real fantastic.  _ He’d won, Viktor was proud, and that was enough. He was okay. What had even woken him up? Maybe he’d dreamed whatever startled him… He’d hurt.  _ You’re going to be even greater.  _ Viktor cared about him, he wasn’t hurting. He was happy. Yuuri’s breathing evened out and then he thought of nothing, not Viktor, not eros or even a pork cutlet bowl. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I wrote the hotel thing before episode seven, and then tried to add details I saw along with what I'd already written. also, Лапочка [LA-poch-ka] is apparently: darling, sweetheart. legit just copied and pasted it because I don't speak Russian, so.


End file.
